Freedom, The French, and Old Orchard Beach


If you’ve ever seen the movie The Patriot you might recall the opening line. It goes … “I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost would be more than I could bear.” Ah yes … words of great wisdom indeed. Why I am recalling that line while deciding to write about my days of yore, could only mean I have something to confess. And to this poor, sweet lass, Patriotcashoffer who has undoubtedly passed the test of time with flying colors and moved on with her life, I sincerely apologize. Now, where do I start after that opening line? From the beginning, I presume.

The summer of 1980. I had my license for over a year now and had done my best to do what damage I could to Mom’s car and even my grandparents’ car. This was a malicious act with the intent that if I did enough damage to theirs, they’d consider letting me buy one of my own. I was a working lad, Cashforhousesillinois after all. I needed to get from to and fro and had to have transportation. It was the obvious choice. I don’t recall how we found her; a 1970 Plymouth Satellite with 23,000 miles on the odometer. The back seat still wrapped in factory plastic sheeting, with a slant six .225 engine. Oh … the glory days. It was the original “little old lady from Pasadena” story. Except this little old lady lived in New Hampshire and not California. Nonetheless, it had manual steering and she couldn’t handle its girth. After her husband passed away, it was stored in her garage collecting dust and awaiting a $750 cash offer from my grandfather to purchase it for me. My first love. nevadacashoffer

The symbolism of a car to a teenaged boy is simplistic in terms. It is freedom on wheels and hardly any man alive will argue this fact with me. Why we consider it this is beyond all realm of comprehension. It’s not freedom per se. You have to make the payments, let alone the insurance and dive into the unjust world of realizing just how screwed you get by the auto insurance industry for being male. You also have to gas it up. Everything about the car is financially restrictive. So why do we consider it symbolic freedom? Well … the girls, of course. The girls love the idea that a guy has his own car. And we’re in the stages of playing exploratory baseball with girls and certain parts of their anatomy … having a car to use as a ball field is just an easier outlet. I mean … what else are you going to say to her? Hey, honey … want to go out in the woods with me? Um … no. That never works. At least not with the kind of girls you’d want to bring home and introduce to momma.

So I drove the Satellite home and had all kinds of visions and adventures were going on in my head. Summer was coming after all and after last summer at the beach, sellahousefastohio this year was going to be even better. Why? Because now I had my own ride! Beer, babes, and beaches, oh my! What a wonderful world we lived in back in 1980. Bad hair, music trying to escape the inevitability of changing from the 70s and, the residual corduroy bellbottom pants. We were entering the disco decade. Eh gad. Somebody hit the brakes! If I knew then what I know now … I probably would have knocked up some young lass and be in worse shape now than ever before. Thank goodness the world works in mysterious ways.

So … we’ve covered “Freedom.” sellfastarkansas Everyone understands that cars are freedom to young lads. Now … let’s talk about the French. My dear grandmother is French Canadian so let’s get that out in the open before anyone accuses me of racial slander. I have nothing against the French. Hell, I’m part French and I kiss French and I eat French Fries … so bite me if you think I’m a racist. Sorry. Obviously, I still have some pent up issues to deal with. To say what I’m about to will involve Old Orchard Beach at the same time as explaining about the French. In the summer time, at least from days ago, the French Canadians would flock to the stateside beaches of Maine and one of their favorite haunts was Old Orchard Beach. The prior summer, we had experienced this newfound treasure being Coasters of New Hampshire, by a fellow Freedom Driver a year older than us and already equipped with his drivers license who opened a whole new avenue of unexplored territory in the female gender to us. French chicks in the thousands. Oo-la-la!

There was one particular week and I do not recollect who went and who didn’t. I may not even have driven that particular night … but I remember it was night time when I met her. Why I can envision her so clearly and not recall her name is beyond me … and you’ll come to understand why as I complete this tale. She was small framed but built well, with fair eyes of bluish green and long, light brownish colored hair. I walked past her in a crowd and turned to see … her other profile …and was elated to see she was doing the same to me. I smiled the international language. She returned the gesture. I can’t remember if we talked right then or rediscovered each other again later. Too many years have come and gone, webuyhousessaltlake too many cobwebs cluttering the attic of my memory. I remember … suddenly sitting on the beach with this girl. She smoked Canadian cigarettes and she knew I didn’t approve. Although if she had had a Columbian cigarette, I would have toked with great earnestness. But her beauty, although maybe wouldn’t have won any pageants, to me she was drop-dead gorgeous … she spoke broken English … very broken and the only French I knew was the kissing kind. It was a match made in heaven … for the summer that is.

 


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